Chinese takeouts.

Lyra's POV

Elena listened without interrupting, sipping her tea with perfect composure. When I finally ran out of words, she was quiet for a long moment.

"When I married Damien's grandfather," she said finally, "I was twenty years old and absolutely terrified. He was cold, demanding, impossible to please. Our first year of marriage, I cried myself to sleep most nights."

"That's... not exactly comforting."

"I'm not finished." She smiled. "It took me years to understand that his coldness wasn't cruelty. It was fear. He'd lost his first wife in childbirth, you see. Lost the woman he loved and their baby in one terrible night."

"It must have hurt him badly. I know what it feels like to lose someone so dear." I shook off the image of seeing het in that pool of her blood.

"Yes, So he built walls and made himself untouchable. Told himself that if he didn't love me, he couldn't lose me."

My chest tightened. "What changed?"

"I stopped trying to tear down his walls and started finding doors instead." She leaned forward. "Damien is like that too. That coldness you see? It's not who he is. It's an armor. Protection against a world that hurt him very badly once."

"What hurt him?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.

"That's his story to tell." Elena's expression was gentle but firm. "But I will say this—be patient with him. And with yourself. This marriage may have started as a business arrangement, but I've seen the way he looks at you. There's something real there, buried under all that pride and fear."

"He called me incompetent today."

"And you probably called him an asshole."

"...Maybe." I chuckled lightly.

"You're both right and both wrong." She stood, moving to a bookshelf and pulling down a photo album. "Look."

The photos showed a younger Damien—maybe twenty-five, smiling in a way I'd never seen. And beside him, a beautiful woman with dark hair and bright eyes.

"Who is she?"

"Someone he loved. Someone who broke him." Elena closed the album gently. "He's not the man in these photos anymore. But he's not as cold as he pretends to be either. You just have to look past the armor."

We talked for hours after that. About marriage and patience and the messy reality of loving difficult men. By the time I left, it was past nine, and some of the weight on my chest had lifted.

I got home to find Damien in the living room. And on the coffee table—Chinese takeout. Two sets of chopsticks. Two plates.

"You hate Chinese food," I said, confused.

"You don't." He wouldn't quite meet my eyes. "And you didn't eat lunch. I checked with my assistant."

"You... got me dinner." I was amused.

"Don't make it weird." But his ears were slightly pink. "I also owe you an apology. For earlier because I was harsh."

I sat slowly on the couch, staring at the takeout like it might be a trap. "You're apologizing to me?"

"Don't get used to it." He finally looked at me, and his expression was softer than I'd ever seen it. "But yes. I was out of line. I should have asked if you were okay instead of attacking."

"I called you an asshole."

"You weren't wrong." The corner of his mouth twitched. "I can be an asshole. Especially when I'm worried and don't know how to express it like a normal human being."

"You were worried about me?"

"You've been off for days. Of course I was worried." He handed me a plate, chopsticks. "So. Are you going to tell me what's really going on? Or are we going to keep pretending everything's fine until something explodes?"

I took the plate, the smell of lo mein making my stomach growl. "Someone's been texting me. Anonymous threats. They know about my bound wolf, about my past. They're threatening to expose... things."

His expression darkened. "What kind of things?"

"The kind that could ruin my life. And probably yours by association." I picked at my food. "I don't know who it is or what they want. But they're watching me. They know where I go, what I wear. It's fucking terrifying."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because we barely know each other. Because this isn't your problem. Because I'm used to handling my shit alone." I met his eyes. "Take your pick."

"We're married. That makes your problems my problems." He pulled out his phone. "I'm calling my security team. They'll find whoever's doing this."

"Damien—"

"No arguments." His voice was firm. "You're being threatened. That's not acceptable. We'll handle it together."

Together. The word settled between us, heavy with implications neither of us was quite ready to examine.

"Thank you," I said finally. "For the food, for all the help and and not firing me."

"I was never going to fire you." He picked up his own chopsticks, though I noticed he wasn't actually eating. "Though I might reduce your coffee budget if you're late to another morning meeting."

"There's the asshole I know and tolerate."

"Tolerate?"

"Don't push it." But I was smiling. And for the first time in days, the knot of anxiety in my chest loosened just a little.

We ate in comfortable silence, and I realized Elena might be right. There was something here. Something real and complicated and probably dangerous.

But maybe worth fighting for anyway.